4. Maddox #2
Papers were spread out across the mahogany, and the words of the contract might as well have been in another language after the third read-through.
There were three pages of PR obligations with one line about a final media project that sounded harmless enough when my brain was fried from travel and sleepless nights.
I didn’t like it then, all the media I was agreeing to, but Marcos was making a point. He still owned me.
But this thing with Grace Buchanan isn’t simply an interview. It’s a full-scale profile. A deep dive. It feels damn near like an exposé.
Of course it does.
Marcos tapped his gold fountain pen against the table, a rhythmic, maddening click-click-click, watching me with a patient, predatory calm.
“Maddox, let’s not pretend this is a negotiation.
” He’d leaned forward, his shadow stretching across the contract.
“We are giving you the exit you’ve been begging for, but you don’t walk away from me for nothing.
You’ll give us this final boost—every ‘authentic’ detail the sponsors can sell.
Consider it the tax you pay for your early retirement.
You want to be a ghost? Fine. But first, you belong to the press until I say you’re finished. ”
My agent’s sympathetic look from across the table, tinged with an unspoken warning: This is the best you’re going to get. Take it, or it’ll get uglier.
I remember the weight of the pen and the way my hand shook before I signed. The moment my name hit the page, my career ended.
I blink back to the Grill. The neon beer signs flicker, and the low buzz of conversation returns. I spot the reporter at the counter, ordering, and even from behind, she’s held too still, a coiled spring waiting to snap.
Wren nudges my arm. “She asked a fair question, Mad.”
“What?”
“Why did you retire?” She watches me carefully, gauging how close she can come to the line without pushing me over it.
“Don’t get me wrong. We love having you home.
I love coaching with you, but from where I was sitting…
your life looked incredible. You were amazing on the track.
I know teaching was your first dream, but walking away when you were at the top…
You’re still young. I’ve wondered… A lot of people have. ”
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Hey, maybe leave the digging to the reporter.” It comes out sharper than I intend—abrupt and jagged.
I reach for my untouched water, trying to mask the way my pulse climbs. This is why I avoid interviews. Why I avoid any conversation even brushing against the truth.
It’s the million-dollar question, and I’m the only one who knows the answer is a debt I might never repay. It’s the same question the entire racing world screamed the minute the press release hit:
Why did Maddox ‘The Mad One’ Hartley walk away with two championships and a third in sight?
Oliver clears his throat, a sharp, jarring sound that pulls me back to the table. His expression is severe, not impressed with my tone toward his fiancée, and I can’t blame him.
“It’s your story to tell… Or not.” Wren’s lips press together, hurt blanketing her features for a heartbeat before she masks it with a tight, professional nod. “But for what it’s worth, you were harsh with her. She waited for you at the gym, Mad. She’s only doing her job.”
Guilt tugs low in my gut. “Yeah. I know. I screwed up, and I’m sorry, Wren. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m an ass.”
Percy returns, the tray rattling slightly as she sets down fresh drinks.
Oliver slides a cold bottle toward me and lifts his own.
“Look, man. We’re not trying to gang up on you.
You’re not alone in this. You’ve got a contract, sure, but you also have a say in what you share.
Set boundaries. She pushes too far, you pull back. ”
“You think it’ll be that easy?” I huff out what I intend to be a laugh, but it falls flat.
“I think you’ve faced worse than one reporter. Crowds. Crashes. Sponsors. Marcos.” His gaze holds mine. “You don’t have to do this by yourself. You’ve got people. Us. Your mom. Katie.”
Wren nods and squeezes my hand. “And if she twists anything you say, we’ll set the record straight.”
Their faith fills the booth, both a comfort and a weight. I drag a hand through my hair, fingers catching on the back of my neck where the skin feels too tight.
“I just… I don’t want that time of my life stirred up.”
“Then give her what you can live with.” Wren pats my hand, her touch grounding. “You don’t owe the world every piece of you, Mad.”
I glance toward the counter where Buchanan waits for her takeout, phone in hand, though she isn’t scrolling. She stares straight ahead, jaw set as if she’s holding the entire day between her teeth and deciding whether to bite down.
This woman waited forty-five minutes in an empty gym because I didn’t bother to check my inbox. This woman just told me she’s coming to my away game whether I like it or not.
Six weeks of questions.
Six weeks of digging.
Six weeks of trying not to crack.
I take another swallow of beer, the taste dull and familiar. If I barely survived the press during my retirement announcement, how the hell am I supposed to keep the truth buried with Grace Buchanan breathing down my neck in a town this small?
She takes her bag and heads for the door without looking back. On the track, I could always find an exit. I could always outmaneuver the pressure. But as the bell above the door chimes her exit, reality makes a fist in my gut and squeezes.
Six weeks.
There’s no way I can outrun her.